


All That Remains

by codenamecynic



Series: It came from the tumblr-verse [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Male-Female Friendship, Post-All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Friends try.  And friends don’t stop trying.</i>  Fenris tries to comfort Hawke as she grieves for her mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the brilliant hornkerling in response to the prompt 'Malapert - Clever in manners of speech' on tumblr

It is not, he thinks, a night for wine.

The decanter of Antivan brandy sits still untouched on the sideboard in Hawke’s bedroom, glinting gold and red like dragonfire in the half-dark of the room. He goes to get two tumblers, sets them on the table, hands flexing inside the metal of his gauntlets as steel rasps on glass, scoring fine lines into the smooth surface that can’t be seen, only felt.

This will not be – easy.

The air in the room is deceptively still, silent other than the crackle of flames and his own quiet motions in the dark. Hawke sits on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing. And yet, now and again, he feels the air vibrate with rage. Wrath shakes the very foundations of the house, roots running deep, deeper than the tunnels of Darktown, deeper than the foothold of the mountain beneath the sea.

Hawke won’t rail, or weep, because Hawke is like him. They are quiet creatures, solid creatures, as sturdy and unyielding as pillars holding up the sky, and yet he can see hurting in the line of her spine, the way sometimes he sees her shoulders flex tight beneath the innocuous robe Bodahn thrust her into, seeking to provide solace anywhere it can be found, in the soft sway of red fabric rather than the rigid press of steel.

Hawke is like him. Such things suit her ill. She wants to tear the world apart, gouge it with her fingernails, bring everything crashing down until all that is left is dust. He knows that feeling well, smashing furniture in the dark because the sound of wood splintering is better than the idle thumping of his own beating heart, racing impotent at the thought of necks out of reach of breaking. But Hawke won’t, because Hawke is stronger than he is, and Hawke is weaker than he is, and Hawke still has things to lose, and will sit there with her hands around her own throat, too scared to breathe for screaming.

He pours the brandy.

Leandra is dead; the knowledge is almost a relief. What was done, the scent of blood in the air, the shiver of magic, wails of demons and shades and the creaking way elbows and knees moved against the resistance of the air like a door with rusted hinges stuttering to a close – even he, from the heart of the Imperium, mutilated and tortured by magisters, has never seen its like. It is enough to drive sleep from his thoughts for many nights to come, and he only called Leandra friend. Not mother.

The thought of it is a cold stone in his grip, hands clenching hard around it. But a stone is just a stone, nothing inside but more stone, no blood to be wrung from its grasp. And yet it’s an anchor, too, and he sees it bow Hawke’s head, even if her shoulders are straight and proud as they ever were.

He hands her the brandy, and she swallows it down without question like a child taking medicine. He refills her cup and she does it again, white fingers ghostly on the glass slowly coming back into focus. He can’t match her after the third – even he will be drunk - but he pours more when it’s gone, sitting quietly at her side, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, because he doesn’t know if he can bear her burden, if she will allow him for just one moment to share the load, but he will try.

Friends try. And friends don’t stop trying.

It’s a canticle he never learned, still tripping over the words everyone else seems to know and yet he is there and will not leave, not even when tears sparkle on her lashes and he pretends he doesn’t see, or when she’s sick on her knees into the chamber pot and he has to hold her shoulders steady, or when they end up on the carpet with her between his legs and he and his armor wrapped around her like a carapace as she falls, exhausted, into sleep.

Sometimes the cleverest words are those left unspoken, a tale never to be told but in the unison march of steps forward, in the knowledge that there is a hand to hold thrust out into the darkness, whether or not it’s reached for and taken.

Fire glitters off the edge of the world, a universe in a glass left abandoned on the floor.

He’ll stay.

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS ROUND! Hornkerling podfic'd this story with her majestic voice - you should definitely check it out :) http://codenamecynic.tumblr.com/post/98466835442/codenamecynic-hornkerling


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